Night with the confessed

I sat down and started talking with one of them
small talk.
Her name was called and she said, ‘that’s me’
She got on stage
the chatter relaxed, dimmed, my perception of her changed

Her words cascaded down to and off of her instrument,
mixing with the sound of strings,
mixing with fluids of the atmosphere that I was meant to understand so well

The story she told prompted the disco ball
to chime in, it’s kitsch peeled away
becoming what it was made for
becoming the song’s co-author
allowing me to be in the moment

the club belongs to them and I happened to wonder in
the club of the confessors, high crimes of love
there was no sentencing, only sharing
I am wary to sit at another open mic.
I don’t know if my night
with the confessors could be
replicated